THREE #2
“Yes. There was nothing secret between you and me. There was no between you and me.”
“And she copied all of them in her handwriting.”
“Most of them. Sometimes she changed things. Sometimes I wrote only part.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Do you understand what you’re asking me to accept?”
I stopped beside the dresser. “I’m not asking you to rewrite ten years in one night. I’m asking why your uncertainty gave you permission to shame me.”
“I was trying to stop a fight at a table full of people.”
“You stopped me. You didn’t stop Camille. You returned the letter to her, Theo.”
“Because her handwriting is on it. Because I received it from her. Because for ten years I have believed—”
“I know what you believed.”
“Then give me something more than your memory.”
The words landed between us.
I zipped the suitcase compartment holding my passport and personal documents. “There might be old drafts. Emails. I don’t know. It was ten years ago, and I had no reason to preserve proof of something I thought everyone understood.”
“You edited for a living. You kept files.”
“Not every file I’ve ever touched.”
“Check your backups. Camille’s emails. Anything with a date.”
I turned to face him fully. “If I have no proof, was it reasonable to call me a jealous liar in front of your family?”
“I did not call you that.”
“You said I was competing with her over the year you survived. You told me to sit down while she held my words. What distinction do you think anyone at that table heard?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I went to my desk, unplugged my laptop, and slid it into its case. Theo remained near the closet, watching me remove myself from the room one practical piece at a time.
“Don’t do this tonight,” he said. “We’re both angry. Sleep in the guest room if you need space. Tomorrow we’ll look for whatever records exist, and we’ll talk when we’re calm.”
“I’m calm enough to know I won’t sleep here.”
“Lena.”
“You keep saying my name as if it will make me easier to manage.”
His expression tightened. “That isn’t fair.”
“Neither was tonight.”
I took toiletries from the bathroom and my chargers from the nightstand.
My gaze caught on the place where his phone had fallen that morning.
Hours ago, I’d laughed while he held me.
The distance between that bed and this suitcase felt impossible, but there it was, measured in the things I could carry.
My handbag waited on the bench.
I checked inside. The gift box was still there. The ribbon had loosened on one corner but remained tied.
Theo watched me close the bag. “Where are you going?”
“Mara’s.”
“I’ll have the driver take you.”
“No.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“My sister is coming.”
I had texted her from the bathroom while gathering my toothbrush. COME GET ME. No explanation. Her reply had arrived before I finished packing.
ON MY WAY.
Theo stepped closer, then stopped before he touched me. “At least wait until morning.”
“Morning won’t change what you did.”
“It might change what we understand.”
“You’re still doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Treating the facts about the letters as if they decide whether I deserved your respect tonight.”
He looked at me, and I saw that he genuinely did not know how to separate the two.
That hurt in a different place than Camille’s lie. Deeper. Closer to everything I had trusted.
Headlights moved across the bedroom wall.
I lifted my suitcase.
Theo took one step toward me. “Lena, please.”
I wanted to ask what he was pleading for. One more night in the same house? More time to locate the correct version of the past?
I didn’t ask. I walked downstairs.
Mara was waiting at the curb in sweatpants and an old coat thrown over her pajamas. She got out as soon as she saw the suitcase. Her eyes went to my face, then past me to Theo standing in the open doorway.
She didn’t demand an explanation. She opened the trunk.
I put my suitcase inside and got into the passenger seat.
Theo stayed in the doorway as we pulled away.
Mara waited until we reached the end of the block. “Are you hurt?”
“Not physically.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
She turned up the heat and drove.
Mara lived in the upstairs apartment of a narrow converted house. The stairs creaked, the kitchen light took two tries, and the spare room still held boxes of mine that neither of us had bothered to sort. She carried my suitcase up without asking whether I planned to stay one night or a month.
The ordinary imperfections steadied me. Nothing in the apartment anticipated what I wanted before I said it. Nothing rearranged itself around the Blackwell name. There was only my sister, making room because I had asked.
In the kitchen, she made tea. I sat at the narrow table and finally took the cream box from my handbag.
“This was for Theo,” I said.
Mara set down the kettle and sat across from me.
I untied the green ribbon. Beneath the tissue paper, the positive test lay beside the tiny white socks.
Mara covered her mouth.
I touched one sock with the tip of my finger. The joy was still there. Bruised, changed, but mine.
“I’m seven weeks,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll tell him.”
Mara reached across the table and took my hand.
“And I’m still leaving.”